


The Hudson River Challenge

by monobuu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Drunk England (Hetalia), Frustrated Ben Bailey, M/M, Smartass America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7434282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monobuu/pseuds/monobuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their way home, Alfred and Arthur happen to hail a certain game show taxi cab. Oh, and Arthur's drunk. Let the game begin. [written for the kink meme]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hudson River Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> In my headcanon, drunk!Arthur sounds exactly like the Sleep Talkin' Man. Verbatim, really.

“Tell me again why the hell we're wandering the streets of New York at one in the morning, piss fucking drunk with our hands out like complete nutters, trying to hail a cab when we could just use the car we _came in_?”  
  
Alfred repressed the urge to facepalm, because even though his back was turned and Arthur was definitely more than a little tipsy, the man would _know_ and no matter how much rum or beer or whiskey straight from the bottle, or how many dirty pints he'd downed over the course of the night, he'd _remember tomorrow_ and Alfred did not need to deal with more snark on top of what was sure to be a massive hangover. But he couldn't quite hold back the frustrated sigh of someone well acquainted with this type of behavior, and he threw his hands up into the air before he could stop himself.  
  
“Because a certain British _space case_ couldn't hold onto my keys for five fucking minutes while I took a piss without _losing them,_ that's why,” Alfred answered.  
  
And seriously, the man had been in charge of them for literally under three minutes and when Alfred had come back, hand outstretched, Arthur hadn't even had the decency to look sorry. Which may or may not have had something to do with the fact that by that point in the evening, Arthur had already taken his little nap on the table _(read: he passed out for 18 minutes while Alfred enjoyed the blessed ending of a rant on the proper use of prepositions)_ and had decided to take six shots to perk himself back up _(and Alfred didn't even feel sorry for lecturing the poor shot-girl for encouraging that type of behavior, because honestly)_.  
  
Regardless, it was obviously Arthur's fault and Alfred was so not taking the blame for this one.  
  
“You've been getting on with some other Englishman behind my back?” Arthur called out to him, voice further away than it had been two seconds ago _(though the distance didn't do much to lessen the shocked sound of betrayal that threaded through his tone)_.  
  
Alfred turned to find Arthur had stopped and raised a hand to point accusingly in Alfred's direction as he swayed, and Alfred could honestly not make his expression any more deadpan than it was at that moment. He should just let it go, he should. Arthur was smashed and didn't know what he was saying, but Alfred just couldn't keep the sarcasm from bubbling up as he rolled his eyes.  
  
“Yes. I was actually having a quickie with him in the bathroom and he fucked my brains out so hard that I accidentally dropped my keys into the toilet and like hell I was gonna reach in there to get them – people shit in there, y'know – and that's why we have to get a taxi,” Alfred said, tone completely bland.  
  
There was a slight pause, then-  
  
“You bloody fucking cheating tossbag,” Arthur growled, letting his hand drop. The scowl on his face would've been ranked a seven _(Alfred had a whole system for rating Arthur's glares by now- what, he had a lot of time on his hands during meetings, which were also, coincidentally, when he encountered the majority of said glares)_ if the man weren't listing heavily to one side and about to face-plant into concrete. Alfred was kind of torn between wanting to hold the man up and wanting to watch as he fell gracelessly to the unforgiving pavement. So he just stood there and raised an eyebrow at his lover.  
  
Which didn't go over well.  
  
“Fine then!” Arthur shouted. “Go on and hump the bastard till your dick falls off! I never loved you anyway!” he continued, and Alfred let out another heavy sigh, wondering why Arthur had waited until they were outside and in plain view of sober people to let his mood deteriorate into name calling.  
  
Oddly enough, Arthur's usual insults – which were bad enough as is – tended to turn horrifically sadistic and insulting when he had massive amounts of alcohol running through his system. Alfred wasn't exactly sure if it was due to his usual polite-filters malfunctioning, or if Arthur's brain was merely enjoying the floating sensation of treading in a pond of whiskey so much that it suddenly decided to let his creative streak flow unimpeded, but the result was always the same. Arthur turned cruel and witty and completely unforgiving, and-  
  
“And if you even think about crawling back to me, I'll sic my chinchillas on you!” Arthur yelled.  
  
-and sometimes he just sounded like a moron. Either way, Alfred was quickly losing his patience with the man. He was still tipsy from their romp at the bars, which meant he cared a great deal less about this scene than he probably should, but that didn't mean he was willing to put up with Arthur's shit if he pushed things too far.  
  
“And your hair smells like llama spit!”  
  
That did it.  
  
Alfred pointed right back at him and glared. “It does not!” he yelled, ignoring the odd looks they were receiving from passersby. “And I was fucking kidding; you're the only British dude I know who can lose a set of keys in less than two minutes, so don't get your undies in a twist.”  
  
Alfred was about to continue, because if he kept talking, it meant that Arthur would shut up and stop embarrassing them, when he caught the sight of a taxi coming toward them. He hopped further toward the curb and stuck his hand out, sparing a glance to see if Arthur had managed to think of a retort or if gravity had finally won the night-long battle and Arthur was just passed out in the middle of the sidewalk.  
  
Neither, it seemed. Arthur was just standing there watching him.  
  
Alfred brushed it off and let a smile settle onto his face when the cab pulled over. He waited for it to stop, then tugged open the door and turned to beckon to the drunk still standing there like an idiot.  
  
“Arthur!” he called, impatience lacing his tone. The man stood there, legs awkwardly trying to keep his unsteady balance, and Alfred motioned for him to get his ass moving. “While I'm still young, would be nice.”  
  
Arthur turned his head this time, at least, but still didn't make any move toward the cab.  
  
Alfred was almost ready to march over and physically haul him into the cab when Arthur finally started forward, muttering something about _young my arse_ and _where the hell had he gotten that sass from? Certainly not from Arthur himself. Jesus christ it was fucking taters out here, why the hell hadn't Alfred gotten them a cab sooner? Put that apparent goddamn youth to good use – where had he gone wrong raising that boy? Idiot can't even put the steering wheel on the right side of the car. See what I did there? Oh my god I kill myself._  
  
Alfred was honestly just happy the man was doing as he was told and merely watched to make sure Arthur made it into the cab without hurting himself. His lover was a notoriously unruly and loudmouthed drunk, and Alfred was willing to take any blessing the night still saw fit to bestow upon him. He followed the man into the cab, guided him into the seat furthest from the opened door and sat himself, sliding the door shut as he gave the driver their heading – Alfred's apartment in New York. The driver nodded and Alfred turned to tell Arthur to quit fucking around with the seatbelt and just _click it into place already_ , when a short burst of music came on and the ceiling of the cab lit up in a multitude of bright, flashing lights.  
  
“Oh, you're shitting me...” Alfred murmured.  
  
“What the fuck is this?” Arthur slurred, eyeing the lights with distrust as he flattened himself against the seat awkwardly. “The unicorns are attacking, Jesus christ- Get the ice cream guns!”  
  
“You're in the cash cab!” the driver said happily, speaking over Arthur and turning to look at them from the front of the cab. “It's a TV game show that takes place right here in my taxi.”  
  
Alfred blinked at the man, slightly distracted by Arthur's apparent decision to attack his beloved mythical creatures. His name was Ben something-or-other if his memory served him right, and he felt a smile start to spread across his face, disbelief and laughter bubbling up to the surface as he tried to keep his amusement in check. Maybe this night wouldn't be a total loss after all.  
  
“Orange Fruities, get the Orange Fruites,” Arthur insisted.  
  
Alfred kept smiling at Ben, even as his hand snapped out to whack Arthur in the side.  
  
“Whataya say, do you wanna play?” Ben asked.  
  
“We're doomed,” Arthur moaned fearfully from the seat beside him.  
  
“By which he means _hell yes_ ,” Alfred corrected, sitting back in the seat with a grin. He didn't care if Arthur was drunk, they were playing this game because it was awesome and he loved game shows and he'd never have this chance ever again. Arthur owed him this much at least for the llama spit comment.  
  
“Are you sure?” Ben asked, glancing at Arthur.  
  
Alfred ignored Arthur's scowl entirely. “Yep!”  
  
“Okay,” the man said, turning back to face the road. “Let's get going. Where are you headed this late, or should I say this early?”  
  
“Home, actually,” Alfred answered as the cab started to move. “My friend here lost my keys.”  
  
“Oh, that's unfortunate,” Ben said, turning into traffic. “Or maybe fortunate, since now you've got 40 blocks to rack up as much money as you can, huh? And since this is After Dark, the first questions are worth fifty bucks each. You ready?”  
  
“Bring it,” Alfred crowed, ignoring Arthur's mumbling beside him.  
  
“Okay, here's your first question,” Ben said. “Italian for 'bartender,' what term does Starbucks use to describe the person who pours your morning coffee?”  
  
“Starbucks, huh,” Alfred echoed, thinking. “I think it's _barista_ , but...”  
  
He was pretty sure that was the answer, but then again, he'd always thought it was a generic term used by most coffee shops, not just Starbucks. Did Starbucks use something different specifically? He couldn't very well ask Arthur, since the man knew absolutely nothing about coffee – or if he did he refused to admit it out loud, and would definitely just tell Alfred to shut the fuck up rather than say anything on national television that would imply he'd ever come within ten feet of a cup of coffee. The last thing Alfred needed was for Arthur to make a complete ass of himself while a video camera was rolling, because if he ended up doing something inappropriate and someone caught it _on tape_ , Alfred would never here the end of it, that was for-  
  
“How about Italian for 'I'm a gigantic fucking twat who isn't civilized enough to drink tea like a gentleman so I'm just going to serve everyone rancid battery acid'?” Arthur asked bluntly, slouched in his seat even further than before.  
  
Well, so much for that.  
  
Alfred glanced at his lover - he was almost on the floor for fuck's sake - then up at the rearview mirror to find Ben dutifully ignoring that little comment. Alfred threw Arthur a glare before saying, “I'm gonna go with _barista_.”  
  
“Barista is correct,” Ben said happily and Alfred let out a sigh of relief. “On to the next question! What medieval code of knighthood is associated with virtue, honor and courtly love?”  
  
“Courtly love?” Alfred mumbled, looking to the ceiling. Was there some sort of test you had to go through for medieval codes of knighthood? They took that stuff pretty seriously, didn't they? All his movies said so, at least, and there was probably some long, overly complicated term for it, knowing Arthur's people. Alfred hadn't ever really payed attention during history lessons and man was it coming back to bite him in the ass right now. He should probably know this, and he definitely didn't.  
  
“Ah, crap...” he mumbled, trailing off.  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Arthur slurred waspishly. “Virtue, honor and courtly love, Alfred.”  
  
“Repeating the question in a bitchy tone of voice isn't helping as much as you think it is,” Alfred mumbled, closing his eyes as his mind raced.  
  
“Ten seconds,” Ben called.  
  
“Virtue,” Arthur started listing again, slowly and with a deliberateness that suggested Alfred was a giant idiot for not knowing this and dammit, it was _hard_!  
  
“Honor.” Arthur was being a total douche and not helping and how the hell had this question made it into the first four? The first batch was supposed to be _easy_ and-  
  
“Five seconds.”  
  
“Courtly. _Love._ ”  
  
Oh, god, how lame was it that he was going to get a strike on the second question of the ride? They still had over 35 blocks to go and he was about to get a question wrong and if he lost this game, Arthur would give him shit about it forever and maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to play and-  
  
Arthur kicked him in the shin before yelling, “Chivalry, you twit! Fucking learn it!”  
  
“Chivalry is correct,” Ben called out hurriedly, perhaps to cut Arthur off from swearing any more, or perhaps because – no, wait. Yeah. It was probably because Arthur had a potty mouth. Alfred rubbed his shin and tried not to grimace.  
  
“That's $100 you've got so far, let's see if you can add another fifty,” Ben said, tone a little strained.  
  
Alfred nodded, throwing a glance at Arthur and making a tiny gesture for him to knock it off before focusing on the driver. He definitely - probably - should've known that answer and he hoped to god Arthur was drunk enough to forget about it because it would not end well for him if Arthur brought it up again. Ever. And after that question, Alfred was kind of afraid of the next one, because if he needed Arthur's help again, they risked another profanity-ridden tirade on Alfred's mental capabilities.  
  
Oh, please let it be something he knew.  
  
“In 1957, what Russian man-made satellite became the first to be sent into orbit?”  
  
Oh, _hell yeah._  
  
“Sputnik,” Alfred said without hesitation, shifting in his seat and trying to look nonchalant as he fought to keep the grin off his face.  
  
“Fucking cold war,” Arthur grumbled beside him.  
  
“Could you be more specific?” Ben asked, and Alfred raised an eyebrow at him, opened his mouth – only to be interrupted.  
  
“More specific?” Arthur repeated with an incredulous expression, straightening in his seat and then tipping sideways in an altogether failed attempt to look more directly at the driver. “He could give you the entire history of the Russian space program while he _made one_ out of your car's spare parts – hell, he could probably fucking tell you how many goddamn screws they used to build the damn thing, just give him the points.”  
  
Alfred frowned at Arthur, unsure how to take that somewhat backhanded compliment. “Sputnik one,” Alfred clarified distractedly, watching as Arthur slumped back in his seat, head hanging over the arm rest and toward Alfred himself.  
  
“Ah, that's correct,” Ben said with only slight hesitation. He was probably just as disconcerted with Arthur's outburst as Alfred was, though likely for entirely different reasons. “Let's move on to your last $50 question. Often considered the fifth Beatle, what early drummer was ultimately replaced by Ringo Starr?”  
  
“Oh, shit,” Alfred said, face screwing up as he tried to go through all the people who had been given that name in the past. There were a lot, and he wasn't exactly well versed enough in Beatles trivia to know which one of them this question referred to. “Dammit.”  
  
“Jesus fucking- ” Arthur started, eyes closed as he let his head dangle off the end of the arm rest. Alfred looked at him, resisted the urge to poke him in the forehead and waited for him to continue. If anyone knew this answer, it would be him.  
  
“If you don't get this, I'm witholding sex for a month,” Arthur mumbled, eyes still closed.  
  
Alfred's cheeks bloomed with heat before he snapped, “A month!? What's that got to do with-”  
  
“It staaarts~” Arthur began to sing condescendingly. “With a peeeeee~”  
  
“Just tell me, Arthur,” Alfred growled, trying and failing to keep his tone patient. “I know you know.”  
  
“Why? So you can win points in your stupid game? What are ye gonna do with 'em, eh? Go buy a crow bar and start smashing up windows? Bloody pathetic excuse for a game, if ye ask me.”  
  
Alfred stifled a frustrated huff. “You're thinking Grand Theft Auto, Arthur. This is Cash Cab, a _game show_ we are playing _right now_ and-”  
  
“Ten seconds.”  
  
“- and we're gonna _lose_ if you don't give me the stupid answer, already. Seriously, I will buy you a new sweater vest in whatever horribly ugly design you want, just tell me who it was-”  
  
“Five seconds.”  
  
“I'll bottom for a week!”  
  
“Pete Best, you _moron_ ,” Arthur said, not moving from his position and not opening his eyes.  
  
“Correct!” Ben cried, glancing at Alfred through the mirror with a grin on his face. Alfred ignored him, eyes still on Arthur.  
  
“How drunk are you?” Alfred asked, because honestly? He wasn't fucking sure anymore.  
  
“I could blow everyone in this car and then go eat a dead cat for dessert and I wouldn't remember it tomorrow. That level of drunk,” Arthur said.  
  
“Inappropriate, Arthur. We're on TV.”  
  
Arthur's shrug wasn't so much a shrug as an uncoordinated wiggle of his upper body. “You asked,” he muttered.  
  
“Your next questions are worth $100 each and they're a little bit harder,” Ben interrupted, and Alfred turned to find him looking slightly frustrated, a little red in the face and entirely awkward as he tried to act like Arthur hadn't just talked about giving him head or – and Alfred himself started to feel slightly mortified as he remembered – that Alfred had offered up sex as a bargaining chip for an answer. In all seriousness, Alfred reasoned it was par for the course with a drunken Arthur. He decided to act like it hadn't happened.  
  
“What specific variety of poker is played in the championship match at the world Series of Poker?” Ben asked, snapping Alfred out of his thoughts and back into the game.  
  
“Five card draw,” Arthur mumbled, flinging his hand backwards to hit Alfred in the arm. His eyes were still closed, his feet braced on the other side of the car. Alfred had no idea what the man was trying to accomplish.  
  
“Sure, the only time you actually give me an answer and it's the wrong one,” Alfred grumbled, swatting at the hand.  
  
“S'not wrong, ye wanker,” Arthur argued, swatting at the hand that was swatting at him. Without the aid of his eyes, however, he ended up smacking Alfred in the face.  
  
“It's not five card draw,” Alfred said more firmly, capturing the hand in his and holding on tightly so it couldn't hit him again. “It's Texas hold'em,” he said, nodding at Ben through the rear view mirror.  
  
“That is correct,” Ben said, slowing slightly as the car ahead of them braked. “You're at $300,” he said happily, more than likely the result of getting through the previous question with relative ease. Alfred was torn between appreciating what little input Arthur had to offer during the game and hoping he would pass out in his seat and end the drunken tirades altogether.  
  
“Let's see if you can get to $400,” Ben began again. “Located in the constellation Taurus, the Pleiades star cluster is depicted in the logo of what Japanese car maker?”  
  
“Oh, uhm, which one is it,” Alfred muttered, tugging idly on Arthur's hand. “Arthur, which one has the logo with the stars on it? Mitsubishi or Subaru?”  
  
“Toyota,” Arthur said.  
  
“What? No, that- Toyota has the swoopy thing,” Alfred said unhappily, letting go of Arthur's hand as if the man's lack of knowledge in car logos was contagious.  
  
“Honda,” Arthur offered, going back to swatting at Alfred's shoulder.  
  
“Honda's is a big _H_ ,” Alfred growled, grabbing both of Arthur's hands and shoving them away from him. “Stop being unhelpful!”  
  
“Nissan.”  
  
“Nissan's is just their name, Arthur, stop-”  
  
“Yamaha.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ten seconds!”  
  
“Isuzu.”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Volkswagen.”  
  
“No, they- That's not even Japanese!”  
  
“Five seconds,” Ben said from the front seat.  
  
“Ah- Uhm- Subaru,” Alfred said quickly. “I think it's Subaru.”  
  
Ben was quiet for a long moment, looking at Alfred through the mirror. Arthur murmured something suspiciously like, _should've gone with Volkswagen_ and Alfred hissed, “Shut up!” as he waited in anticipation.  
  
“That's correct!” Ben said finally, and Alfred sunk back in his seat, incredibly relieved. He shot Arthur a quick glare for being entirely counterproductive with that last question, then focused on Ben again.  
  
“You're up to $400 now, here's your next $100 question. In what year did the famous 'summer of Love' heat up the hippies?”  
  
“I imagine you'll want the specific year?” Alfred asked.  
  
“That'll be hard,” Arthur said, sitting up in his chair sluggishly. “We were fucking wasted for the entire decade.”  
  
Ben frowned at them in the mirror but answered, “Yes, a specific year please.”  
  
“We were not,” Alfred argued, though he was unsure what, exactly, he was denying. According to how young they _looked,_ they probably shouldn't have been alive in the sixties, let alone old enough to get wasted for an entire decade. Ben was giving him a slightly confused look through the rear view mirror and yeah, he probably should have just kept his mouth shut on that one.  
  
“Wasted or not,” Arthur slurred, holding up a hand, pointer finger extended as he addressed the driver. “Do you even _know_ how much sex we had that decade?”  
  
“Arthur!” Alfred hissed, glancing toward the front of the car quickly before laughing awkwardly. “You're wasted right _now_ , dude. You don't know what you're talkin' about.”  
  
“I do too,” Arthur said, leaning forward in his seat so he could peak around the driver's seat. Ben looked only slightly uncomfortable with Arthur that close to him. Alfred didn't blame him.  
  
“I don't think I've ever spent so many consecutive days as sore as I was during that decade,” Arthur told Ben in a secretive kind of voice, though he was still talking loudly enough for it to be a useless effort. “Although I do think your boss overreacted when he caught us in the storage closet.”  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“He wasn't even supposed to be in the building that day, how was I supposed to know he'd need post-its at the exact same time I had you bent over the box of legal pads?”  
  
“ _Arthur!_ ” Alfred shouted, tugging the man back and into his seat before slapping a hand over his mouth. “TMI, dude! _TMI!_ We are on television!”  
  
“Uh,” Ben said, head tilted to the side as he struggled to ignore that particular comment. “Ten seconds.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, shit,” Alfred said, trying to recall the question. If he could answer it, then they could move on and hopefully shut Arthur up, although considering how that last couple questions had gone, it was only a slight hope at best. He concentrated on the question and let Arthur pull his hand down.  
  
Which- yeah. Big mistake.  
  
“It's not _my fault_ you get horny when you're high,” Arthur said, obviously still arguing his point.  
  
“1966,” Alfred said, blush high on his cheeks and trying to will Arthur's mouth shut with the power of his mind alone. Then he snapped his head around and threw up his hand. “No, wait! 1967. Yeah, 67.”  
  
“Um,” Ben said, perhaps still a bit thrown off by all the talk of _sex_ going on in the back seat, or perhaps because his brain had finally given up. “Yeah- Yes. 1967 is indeed the correct answer.”  
  
Alfred sank back into his seat in relief, his breath escaping in a huff as he glanced at Arthur next to him. The man was slumped to the side, legs spread wide in an effort to keep his balance in the seat, gaze locked firmly on Alfred. Alfred blinked at the scrutiny, then faced forward as Ben began to speak again.  
  
“Okay, here's your last $100 question,” Ben said, focusing on the cars in front of him. “Based on a Greek myth, in what Freudian complex does a boy desire his mother?”  
  
Arthur started to giggle. Alfred threw him a glare.  
  
“Stop it,” Alfred said.  
  
“Make me, _son_ ,” Arthur murmured, putting special emphasis on the last word.  
  
Alfred really hoped Arthur wasn't implying what he thought he was implying, but if he was, “Arthur, you're being super awkward right now.”  
  
“I think you mean kinky,” Arthur corrected, shifting in his seat so that his legs hung over the armrest nearest Alfred. He settled his back against the other armrest and crooked his finger at the American as he let one leg slide off, spreading his legs wide in a movement that was not lost on Alfred.  
  
Alfred shook his head. “Not gonna happen.”  
  
Arthur employed his other finger as well, a sly smile spreading across his face. “Oedipal Complex, my dear,” he purred. When Alfred stayed put in his seat, Arthur extended his foot to nudge him in the arm and Alfred scowled.  
  
“Oedipal Complex is correct,” Ben said, and when Alfred looked at the mirror, it was to see the man avoiding any and all eye contact with his passengers. Not exactly a surprise, considering the last question. Arthur was being creepier than usual, even for Alfred.  
  
“You're up to $600 and we're about to move on to the $200 questions, which are even harder,” he said,  
obviously running on autopilot as he put most of his effort into driving and avoiding the men in the backseat. Alfred wondered briefly how high this ride ranked on his 'awkward fares' list. He was willing to bet pretty high.  
  
“What two letters of the alphabet are often used as a written abbreviation for 'hugs and kisses?” Ben asked.  
  
Before Alfred could answer, Arthur was out of his seat and moving, sliding over to the American's seat and straddling his lap awkwardly. “Oh, come on!” Alfred whined, hands grasping Arthur by his hips to keep him steady in the moving vehicle. “Are you doing this on purpose, dude!?” he threw at Ben.  
  
“Just answer the question,” Ben said, clearly resigned to Arthur's weird, and inappropriate, behavior.  
  
“XO,” Alfred grumbled, head dodging to the side, when Arthur bent down to mouth at his neck. “The answer is XO.”  
  
“That is correct!” Ben called with false enthusiasm.  
  
“'m going to XO the shite outa ye,” Arthur murmured in his ear, tongue darting out to lick a trail up the shell of his ear.  
  
“We're in a taxi, Art,” Alfred whined, trying to push the man back toward his own seat. “On camera!” he insisted.  
  
“I've always wanted to fuck ye in a car,” Arthur said, struggling to stay close to him even as Alfred's strength began to win out.  
  
“You already have, Art, you don't-” Alfred caught himself, eyes darting toward the mirror as he scrambled to correct his slip. “I mean- Uhm- Shut _up_!”  
  
Alfred left his own seat to try and put Arthur back in his own, grabbing the seat belt and attempting to twist in such a way that it would make the drunken moron _sit his ass down._ But Arthur struggled and in an attempt to keep the scuffle to a minimum, Alfred gave up and just flopped back into his own seat, bringing Arthur with him as he let out a frustrated sigh. Arthur straddled his lap again, pressing his crotch into Alfred's in an entirely inappropriate fashion.  
  
“Let's move on to the next question,” Ben said, taking a right turn, and Alfred couldn't see the man's face because Arthur was currently mauling his face with his lips, but he could _hear_ that the man had all but given up entirely. Alfred considered doing the same.  
  
“Using a process called hemiteleia,” Ben started, pronouncing the word carefully and slowly. “This form of English language phrase construction is prevalent in dialectal British English from the area in the East End of London, from which it also takes its name. What is it?”  
  
Alfred frowned as Arthur pulled back. “I didn't even understand that question,” Alfred muttered. This was probably to make up for the 'XO' question, which had been exceedingly easy. Dammit. He may have given up on curbing Arthur's behavior, but he absolutely refused to give up on winning this fucking game, he'd already suffered through enough of this, he deserved to win.  
  
“That's because you never use your crust, lad,” Arthur told him, a lopsided smile gracing his features. “Ye haven't got a pot of glue, have ye?” he asked.  
  
Alfred frowned, trying to parce what Arthur was trying to say. “What the hell are you-”  
  
“That's alright, though,” Arthur continued. “Fer a ham shank, yer all two-thirty and the very thought of your Khyber and Hampton makes me long for a bit of a J. Arthur, if ye ken what I mean. Play yer cards right and we could have a bit of how's yer father, yeah?”  
  
Alfred's eyes widened and he grinned. “Oh!” he shouted. “It's that stupid rhyming thing you do when you drink too many of those fruity drinks with the umbrellas! What's it called?”  
  
“Ten seconds,” Ben called from the front.  
  
“Something about cock, right?” Alfred said, thinking quickly. “Cocker...cockles...? Cock...”  
  
“Speaking of,” Arthur murmured, hands delving beneath Alfred's shirt so that he could fiddle with Alfred's belt. Alfred tried to push them away, but he was largely unsuccessful, as the motion brought them- yeah. Kinda close to his sensitive bits, which was - ho _shit_ \- much, much worse _(or better, depending on how you viewed public debauchery)_.  
  
He huffed in annoyance as Arthur started trying to slip the belt from beneath the loops on his jeans. “You're being unhelpful again.”  
  
“Hush,” Arthur muttered. “Let me romance you and your _cock_.”  
  
“Five seconds.”  
  
“Cockney!” Alfred called, grinning wide at having remembered. He sobered quickly, however, when Arthur succeeded in undoing his belt and went for his button and fly. “Uh, rhyming- rhyming...Arthur stop it, this is-”  
  
“Slang, dearest,” Arthur finished, burying his nose in Alfred's neck.  
  
“What?” Alfred grunted in confusion, hands like steel bands on Arthur's wrists, trying with all his strength to keep them from delving beneath the parted cloth of his pants.  
  
“ _Cock_ ney rhyming _slaaang_ ,” Arthur purred, twisting his hands in a way that broke Alfred's grip, and Alfred hissed quietly as Arthur's fingers wrapped around him, eyes darting to the front of the taxi and praying to every god he knew that Arthur's bulk, slight as it was, was enough to block what he was doing.  
  
“I'll give it to you,” Ben said hesitantly. “But I must insist that your friend behave himself, or I'll have to pull over.”  
  
“He's just-”  
  
“Havin a bit o' fun,” Arthur finished with a sly grin, pressing himself closer and licking a path up Alfred's neck.  
  
“Arthur, please- ah!” Alfred tried, squirming in his seat as Ben's frown grew deeper in the rear view mirror. His breathing turned heavy and he hauled on Arthur's wrists to try and put a stop to this behavior, but- well. One hand was latched onto his cock, and he certainly wasn't going to put all his strength into it for fear of any permanent damage. Arthur must have known this, because he ignored Alfred's attempts.  
  
“Oh god,” Alfred moaned. “This is not happening, this is not- holy _fuck_.”  
  
“Sir,” Ben said from the front, slowing for a stop light. “If you could please return to your seat.”  
  
“Hmm,” Arthur hummed, and to someone else, it might look like he was contemplating Ben's request and whether or not to heed it. To Alfred, who'd known Arthur for much too long, he saw it for what it actually was.  
  
“No,” Alfred said emphatically. “Don't make that face.”  
  
“What face?” Arthur asked, fingers trailing down to the base of Alfred's erection and below, brushing the sensitive skin where thigh met groin.  
  
“ _That_ face,” Alfred whined, letting out a ragged exhale. “The stupid one that says you're about to do something _stupid_.”  
  
“Nothing I do is stupid,” Arthur argued in slurred tones.  
  
“Uhm,” Ben said. “I'm seriously going to have to pull over if you two can't-”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Alfred challenged, ignoring the driver entirely and lifting his hips a bit when Arthur's fingers returned to the base of his cock. He couldn't help himself, Arthur was way to good at this, even drunk. “What about that time you- ah, shit, _anytime_ you use magic?”  
  
“Nonsense,” Arthur said snippily. “I'm so magic, I puke rainbows and shit pixie dust, just you watch.”  
  
“No,” Alfred said firmly. “No, no no no. Whatever it is, _no_.”  
  
“Ho-”  
  
Alfred gave up on his quest to stop Arthur's hands from entering his jeans – because fuck it, they were already in there – and employed one in covering his mouth. “Arthur, don't you dare-”  
  
Arthur licked his palm, startling Alfred into pulling back a bit, just enough for Arthur to whisper, in a tone that was probably supposed to be sexy, but came out entirely too menacing for Alfred's comfort, “ _Hoata_.”  
  
“Oh, fuck me,” Alfred muttered, then watched in horror as Arthur's clothes dissolved into nothing but a too-short white toga that showed a sinful amount of skin. In a poof of what seemed to be an entire bottle of glitter, large white wings sprung from Arthur's back and a halo appeared above his head. The wings were too large for the interior of the taxi and curled around awkwardly, the left bending into the front cab, the right into the back.  
  
“What the hell!?” Ben shrieked in the front, and the taxi swerved to the side, coming to an abrupt halt that sent Arthur sailing away from Alfred and into the back of the front seat. The smug look on his face fell when Alfred used the sudden space to zip himself up as quickly as he could, and darkened into a conniving _You think you've thwarted me, but just you wait!_ look.  
  
Alfred panicked, lurched forward as he saw Arthur turn towards Ben, hand raising the wand that had appeared out of nowhere.  
  
“Arthur, no-!”  
  
“HOATA!”  
  
–  
  
“I was winning, you know,” Alfred grumbled.  
  
They stood on the sidewalk a block away - one fucking block! - from Alfred's apartment and Arthur looked only slightly more sober than he had at the beginning of this catastrophe, still dressed in the uniform of Britannia Angel. His wings drooped to the ground and he held the wand loosely in his hand. Alfred had only returned the blasted thing to him after he'd promised to turn Ben's taxi back into a taxi, rather than leave it as the shining, majestical unicorn he had transformed it into in his fit of cock-blocked rage. They were just lucky the complaint _They turned my taxi into a mythical creature!_ sounded a little too crazy to actually bring to the police with any sort of hope for retaliation, and that was his sole guiding thought when Alfred tried to find the bright side of tonight.  
  
“At least he didn't arrest you,” Arthur mumbled, gazing at his wand in contemplation.  
  
“Me!?” Alfred sputtered. “For what?”  
  
“Public indecency.”  
  
“And who was responsible for _that_?” Alfred hissed. “It's not my fault you decided to get all horny and grab-assy!”  
  
“Wouldn't have mattered so much if you'd just driven us home in _your car_ ,” Arthur argued, hands on hips as he turned, swayed a bit, then rebalanced himself. “Where the hell is your car anyway?”  
  
Alfred glared long and hard at his lover, then bent to put his shoulder into Arthur's stomach, lifting him up and over his shoulder before turning in the direction of his apartment. Arthur's wings flapped about as he flailed a bit, but Alfred managed to shove them aside so he could see and Arthur eventually settled.  
  
“Where are we going?” Arthur asked abruptly. “That's not the way to the Burrito Palace.”  
  
Alfred chose to ignore him and hoped that would put an end to the conversation. If he could get home without any more incidents, he would consider it a win. Just one block. All he had to do was make it one block and he would-  
  
“Oh, no,” Arthur said. “I can't remember where my feet are.”  
  
Alfred didn't answer, just adjusted Arthur on his shoulder and kept walking. Just one block, then he'd be home and he could put this whole thing behind him.  
  
“Where's the floor? The floor's gone! Alfred! What- Oh. Well, hello there,” Arthur said, and slapped Alfred on the ass.  
  
“Story of my life,” Alfred muttered. 


End file.
